Caged Birds that Don’t Sing

I didn’t even know I could sing.

Am I addicted to the pain.

The very demon that I hated is the hero I became

And

It’s a shame, how fast I run back to the same old things that haunt me in my dreams.

It’s always more comforting to dance in the sheets with a nymph and a freak,

Than be cleansed from the cords and have to walk away from everything I invested with all of me.

So in my head there’s a space where I can crawl in and take my life away without receiving judgement on this life of pain.

Three walls, red paint.

Centerfold. Bird Cage.

Why pretty bird, don’t you sing?

Blank face. Bullet Case.